Summer.
It's been a few months since early spring, when she last saw him. It is full summer now, and the days are long and hot in her desert city. She was starting to wonder if that spring day had been the end; if she would ever see him again. She had seen the melancholy in his eyes, and he, in hers. Maybe he too wondered how long they could keep doing this. She would've thought though, that he would've said goodbye. Maybe something happened to him — his pirating finally caught up him, and he's sitting in a cell somewhere. She likes to think Basch would have found out though, and told her. Maybe not, she thinks, as she wrinkles her nose in the mirror. Basch doesn't like him very much, and is not exactly obvious in hiding his distaste.
The windows are all open, but even still, it is sweltering. The heat is oppressive, the humidity, otherworldly, and not in a good way. She slips a silk robe on, over her swimming attire and heads out of her room.
She's in the pool, floating aimlessly, grateful for finally feeling a semblance of cool. She closes her eyes, and predictably her thoughts return to him. Where he is, what he's doing. Probably something much more interesting than negotiating trade routes and avoiding suitors. She knows she needs an heir, and she'll get to it. Just not yet. She's not ready to let him go. She doesn't want to let him go. She doesn't want to ask him to stay either; she could never cage him and take away his freedom.
Immediately after exiting the water, the heat starts seeping in once again. She is cross as she heads back into her room, peeling off the silk robe and tossing it over her chair as the doors shut behind her. She wrings out her hair, when she hears,
"You should wear that more often, Princess."
Startled, she looks towards the balcony, and there he is. Arms crossed, smirk on his face. His eyes trailing her body from the ground up, before finally reaching her face. His eyes glimmer with approval.
Heat travels to her cheeks, a different kind than she was feeling before in this damned oppressive weather.
He looks good, she notes. Not at all drenched in sweat; it's like the heat does not affect him at all. It's unfair, really.
He clears his throat. Her cheeks flush, as she's been caught staring at him. She raises her eyes to his. One of his eyebrows is raised and that perpetual smirk is on his face.
She realizes she hasn't said anything to him yet; hasn't responded. She really wants to wipe that smirk off his face, she thinks, as she crosses the room, pulls his face down to hers, and kisses him hard.
He's a little surprised at first — he wasn't expecting that — but he reciprocates quickly, one hand gripping her hip, pulling her flush against him, the other in her hair, fisted tightly. She grinds herself against him and is delighted when she hears him moan.
He often has the upper hand, but sometimes she wins too. She knows he can't resist her.
That night, he is rough, but so is she. If he was gentle in spring, in summer he is wild. She started it though, and she likes it as he fucks her. This isn't lovemaking. It is sticky, and they are slick with sweat from their actions and the heat. Somehow, she doesn't mind that heat anymore though.
She wakes him up twice more in the night for a repeat performance. The leading man is more than happy to oblige.
In the morning, he's gone. She realizes they didn't talk about his absence, or anything of substance. It doesn't matter, she decides. She's gotten her fix, has enough to sustain her for the next little bit.
